


The Great Evil, The Greater Good

by AlessaGreenwood



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, HUGE Canon Divergence, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, sort of???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-09 02:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessaGreenwood/pseuds/AlessaGreenwood
Summary: What if Crowley didn't take the Antichrist to St. Beryl's? What if, instead, he stole the baby and ran away to raise him with Aziraphale?This is a tale of a demon, an angel and the antichrist out to save the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based loosely on this piece of art: https://danasauurrr.tumblr.com/post/186240569771/i-wanna-draw-more-of-them-but-i-dont-know-where-to
> 
> Obviously, this is incredibly canon divergent, lots of things have been changed. I'm going to try to keep the important things in there when I get to them (Agnes Nutter and Anathema are too important to leave out) but there is so much different here. 
> 
> I'll also be cherry-picking some things from the book because they weren't in the show and I kind of need them. Not huge things, mind, I haven't read the book yet but little tidbits like things in Tadfield.

The fate of the world laid fitfully in a basket in the backseat of a black Bentley, an unholy Moses sent to lead the demon hordes upon his eleventh year, to destroy the legions of Heaven and rule over the wrecked Earth. The Destroyer of Kings whimpered in distress, for what reason his deliverer wasn’t sure. Crowley didn’t know much about babies, demonic or otherwise.

This was not how Crowley had expected his night to go. He figured he would just do a bit of mischief, business as usual. He spent the evening tampering with the London wireless telephone network, had enjoyed that quite a bit, but then the call had come. A meeting had been arranged, to which he was promptly ordered to attend. The rendezvous point was an old crumbling cemetery, far outside of London’s limits. Crowley was loathed to go, he didn’t revel in the company of other demons but this, Dagon had stressed, was _important._

A furtive glance into the rearview mirror allowed Crowley another glimpse at the child. It looked so normal, so human, but the babe was anything but. Crowley frowned at its reflection. This wee being was destined to call forth the Apocalypse, to end the world, and that was the trouble. Crowley didn’t want the world to end.

The mission assigned him was to deliver the spawn of Satan to a church, the Order of St. Beryl, a convent of Satanic nuns. They would see to it the baby was placed where he was meant to go, with some American politician’s pregnant wife who, by demonic influence, would go into labour and desperately need a nearby birthing hospital. The nuns would replace the woman’s baby with the antichrist and the sands within the hourglass containing what little time Earth had left would begin to sift. All the pieces were being put into position, all Crowley had to do was make his move and be done with it. His stomach roiled with contention; he was duty-bound to do the devil’s work, it was part of the job description of a demon, but he was also quite fond of the Earth. Six thousand years he’d been upon it, he’d grown quite attached.

Crowley needed a moment to think. There were still miles to go before he’d reach the church, he would be afforded a fair amount of time for the trek, a few minutes couldn’t be held against him. He drove a little ways until he found a small dirt road and turned off. The Bentley rumbled over the uneven, natural path to come to a slow stop. Crowley turned the car off, sat back and groaned.

Silence held the car for a tender moment before the baby began to cry. Crowley glared into the rearview mirror. The stony look softened at the sight of the child’s face scrunched up in discomfort. Crowley turned in his seat and reached out a hand to touch the demonic babe.

This little creature held the key to Earth’s destruction in its tiny hands, and Crowley had it in his. For one brief second, he considered doing the unthinkable. To save the world, could he destroy the evil thing destined to bring about its ruin? As his fingers brushed the soft newborn skin, warm and real and alive beneath his touch, he knew the answer.

Damn him but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to harm the child, even knowing he was bred specifically to presage the end times. He was still a child, an innocent babe who’s only sin so far in its short life was to have been born the son of Satan, a thing he could not consent to and should not be held against him. The child _was_ still a threat, however, but Crowley couldn’t think of what to do. To hand the baby over meant setting everything into motion but to not would certainly make his own life forfeit. There was an answer hidden among the fine threads of the universe but Crowley was only skilled in weaving dissent, he could not find what the right string to pull was.

As the demon sat contemplating in his car the antichrist began to wail. He was miserable, uncomfortable, and had been laying in his basket for far too long. Crowley sighed, opened his car door and entered the backseat. He gingerly pulled the baby out of the wicker bassinet and held the squirming thing close to his chest. He frowned down at the child only to soften as he looked into bleary, blue eyes, full of tears that had begun to gather and spill over and race down the baby’s temples to streak wetness at the tips of its ears.

It was then Crowley’s heart cracked and traitorous feelings seeped throughout his entire being. He wanted to save the world, yes, but he also now wanted to save the child. This young, malleable thing could be raised to be an evil, self-serving horror, a proper demon to prevail over the armies of his father but he didn’t have to be. What if the antichrist was raised not as a spoiled brat, destined to be cruel and heartless, but rather as a normal child who would be capable of making his own choices, be they good or ill? Would a boy raised to know compassion and empathy for his fellow man sacrifice his own beloved home for the sake of fate?

Crowley moved fast, his racing thoughts trailing behind like the white flag of surrender. He gently laid the baby back into its basket and slid into the front seat of the Bentley. The onset of a plan had taken hold in his mind and he knew he had precious little time left to enact it.

“Call Aziraphale,” He instructed aloud, the nerves in his stomach dancing as he waited for his cell phone to connect to Aziraphale’s landline. When the automated voice apologized that the call could not go through, that the cellular network was currently down, he smacked his head against the headrest of his seat and groaned. That was on him, he knew, and he mentally cursed himself for his earlier malice.

With a grunt, he put his car into reverse and pulled out onto the black paved freeway. There was a stop just inside London’s city limits where he knew he could find a payphone. He tore off down the road towards it, rehearsing in his mind all the different things he could say to convince the angel to work with him. Aziraphale was never that difficult to coerce, perhaps Crowley could bribe him with the promise of a dinner date. Always worked in the past.

Crowley counted every minute he spent procrastinating the mission assigned him, keeping a running tally of how much time he would be chided for wasting as he continued to do so. The Bentley came to an abrupt stop scant feet away from the red phonebox and screeched its criticism against the sudden halt. Crowley very nearly threw himself from the car into the booth and dialed the angel’s number.

“I am sorry, but we are most definitely closed–” Aziraphale answered with a bright yet dismissive tone. Crowley inhaled deeply, swallowed his trepidation and interrupted the angel.

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” He said. Aziraphale went quiet and the silence on the line made Crowley uneasy. A feat to be sure as the demon was already quite anxious.

“Ah. Crowley,” Aziraphale finally uttered. He sounded conflicted, as if he did and did not want to be hearing from Crowley.

“No time to explain, I need you to meet me as soon as possible,” Crowley insisted, determined. “It’s about–”

“The end of the world, my dear?” Aziraphale sighed, cutting off Crowley’s plea. Word apparently traveled fast, faster than Crowley was going. He needed to move.

“Just get to me, I need you,” The demon bit and hung up the receiver.

His eye was ever on the time as he waited in his car for the angel to appear. He had taken the baby into his arms and begun to gently rock it when Aziraphale manifested in the passenger side seat of the Bentley. The blond looked quite put out and cast a surreptitious glance about before focusing on Crowley. That focus was stolen, however, by the bawling babe in the demon’s arms.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. “What is _that?_ ” He motioned with a nod. Crowley rolled his yellow eyes and gave Aziraphale a weary look over the rim of his dark glasses.

“The son of Satan, angel,” Crowley replied dryly. Aziraphale startled at the frank admission. Crowley merely continued to rock the child while he watched the conflicting emotions flash through pale blue eyes. Aziraphale soon pursed his lips, huffed in annoyance and held open his hands. Crowley quirked an eyebrow but handed the baby over. It would be a lie to try to deny the momentary flutter of uneasiness, he had just handed the antichrist over to an angel, but his fears were assuaged upon Aziraphale cradling the baby close. A pacifier appeared in the angel’s hand to be gently urged between the baby’s lips, quieting the infant.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on here, Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded.

So Crowley explained. Explained the mission, how the boy was meant to bring about Armaggedon and how Crowley was sinking himself further and further into trouble the longer he took in delivering the babe. He explained his proposition as it fully took form in his own head.

“I’m bound to be rubbish with children but you’re an angel,” He started.

“I can not take care of a baby, Crowley! Least of all the _antichrist_ ,” Aziraphale hissed. He looked about again, as if he were scared the two would be overheard.

“There is no point in attempting to delay the inevitable,” He sighed, the fingers of one hand absently began to stroke the wet temple of the child in his arms. “Armaggedon is destined to come, my dear, Heaven and Hell have impatiently waited thousands of years to battle it out in the coming war. It is part of God’s Ineffable plan, we can’t change that.”

The glower in Crowley’s eyes was dark and a muscle twitched in his jaw, protesting the strength to which it was clenched. Normally he was merely annoyed at the mention of that damned Plan but right now, with the fate of the world literally, physically, in the palms of their hands, he had no patience for it. It was time to appeal to the angel’s loving nature. He leaned over and slid his fingers over the hand Aziraphale had under the child. Aziraphale blinked, taken aback by the sudden touch.

“You’re telling me that you have no problems whatsoever in letting this,” He emphasized his words with a gentle squeeze to Aziraphale’s hand, a gentle push of the baby against Aziraphale’s chest. “This innocent child die, because the war between angels and demons is so righteous? You are telling me that this baby, and the millions like him across the world, means nothing to you? That you can stand by, having watched generations upon generations of humans build this world with their books and plays and music and history, and deny the future generations their chance to do the same?”

There was a noticeable difference in Aziraphale upon listening to Crowley’s statement. The angel had turned his eyes down to the baby cradled against him, his shoulders had slumped, his posture deflated. He quietly lifted his eyes heavenward and sat silently a moment or two. Crowley could not tell if the angel was praying or not, he had hoped he wasn’t. The last thing they needed right now was for Heaven to cotton on to what they were doing.

“Fine,” Aziraphale murmured and shook his head. “Fine, I’ll help you, but aren’t you being watched or something? You should have delivered this child an hour ago!” Crowley grimaced at the red digital numbers on the Bentley’s clock. Aziraphale frowned, clicked his tongue and handed the child back to Crowley.

Before Crowley could object, the angel opened the car door and stepped outside. Blue eyes scanned the area which within they were parked for only a brief moment until Aziraphale seemed to have found what he was looking for. He strode over to where he had seen a feral stray cat, a poor withered thing, and took it into his arms. In a blink, the cat was transformed into a naked and wailing baby boy. With a snap, the child was swaddled in a red cloth, a twin to the babe in Crowley’s grasp. Aziraphale hurried back to the car and slipped inside. Crowley, wide-eyed, stared at the changeling.

“Now, take this and deliver it to where it needs to go,” Aziraphale blurted. The two carefully switched the babies, the angel handing the false antichrist over and taking the true spawn of Satan into his embrace. “As soon as you are done with whatever it is you’re going to do, meet me at the bookshop. We’re going to have to come up with something a little more comprehensive than simply stealing a child.” He gave Crowley a sharp look before dematerializing.

Crowley could only look on in complete awe for a few moments after Aziraphale had gone. Pride swelled within his demonic heart at how quickly the angel had faltered in his saintly steps, to risk Heaven’s wrath by taking pity on the infernal child. He had given Crowley hope, perhaps his idea wasn’t as stupid and foolhardy as it still felt. It was rash, impetuous, but well-meant and possibly the only chance they had in averting an all damning war.

Crowley raced as if the devil were at his heels to reach the church of St. Beryl. He barged into the foyer with the surrogate son of Satan and handed it over to the first nun he saw. She was a bit flighty, all starry-eyed as she held the basket in her hands. Crowley made his excuses and went as quickly as he could to leave the convent behind in his wake. He tore off towards London, to Soho, where his angel awaited.


	2. Chapter 2

Golden light filtered through the shaded windows of A.Z. Fell’s Bookshop to splash morning across the nearly silent den. Within, Crowley lay draped across the plush couch, sunglasses perched low on his nose as he watched Aziraphale continue to pace uneasily with the antichrist in his arms. The angel had utilized a few small miracles as he’d waited for Crowley’s arrival, to feed, change and clothe the child, now snuggled up in a white cotton daygown and dozing peacefully against Aziraphale’s chest.

“We can’t stay here, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley frowned up at him, confusion evident in his eyes, even through the shaded glass. Aziraphale motioned with one hand to the bookstore around them.

“Here, Crowley,” He huffed in agitation. “I can not keep the antichrist _here_. Do you have any idea how often I’m visited by my superiors? It may not be a daily occurrence but they would certainly, eventually take note of a baby. Why can’t you keep him at your flat?”

Crowley pushed himself up from his reclined position and slunk up onto his feet.

“Because, angel, demons do not take in stray children,” He exclaimed then winced upon the harsh look Aziraphale shot him. Right, the baby, keep the volume to a minimum.

“Demons aren’t the kind to adopt children, how would I explain to _my_ superiors that I had some poor orphaned baby on my hands? I’d be told to get rid of it, kill it, toss it into the Thames.” Crowley was trying to make his point without raising his voice, quite a task as he was used to emphasizing his points and keeping quiet made that difficult. Instead, he gesticulated with his hands, pointing quite violently at the bookshop’s front doors.

The truth of the matter was that neither the shop in Soho nor the flat in Mayfair would be sufficient for the care and raising of a child. Neither place was equipped to provide the proper things a newborn would need; a nursery, for starters. Aziraphale had already begun to make a list in his head detailing all of the things a baby would require.

“What do you want, do you want to buy a house or something?” Crowley asked, exasperated. Aziraphale had glared for only a moment before the expression shifted into one of revelation.

“Yes,” He replied softly, eliciting a look of shock on the demon’s face. “We need somewhere to take him, far from London. Away from where both of our Head Offices know we frequent. Not _too_ far, of course, we will need to make occasional appearances in our respective known lodgings, to avoid suspicion.”

Crowley was both listening intently and falling away into the realm of fantastical daydreams as Aziraphale continued on. The angel had a point, if they were going to try raising a human child they were going to need to find some way of providing the things a human would need. Neither angel nor demon needed things like beds or bathrooms or kitchens but humans did and would.

Outside of London but not too far outside of it? Crowley’s thoughts drifted to the church he had been sent to deliver the antichrist to, the Satanic convent. It had laid in a rather peaceful little hamlet a ways outside of London, Tadfield.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Crowley said, unaware he had just interrupted Aziraphale’s tangent on school districts.

“You will?” Aziraphale blinked in surprise. Crowley nodded absently and turned towards the door. “Wait! Where on Earth are you going?”

“To get you a house!” The demon replied with a grin and a wave. Aziraphale watched, dumbfounded, as Crowley left the shop.

Luck of the devil, as it were, was with them. It was as if something wanted them to go to Tadfield, to set up a home in the mysteriously vacant Jasmine Cottage. It was a quaint little house, not very large but for two adults and one baby it was plenty, or so Crowley had initially imagined as he took a stroll in the little garden surrounding the property. The cottage boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, a good-sized den and a moderately sized kitchen with small dining area. It seemed perfect until Crowley realized that there were only _two_ bedrooms and one of those would be turned into a nursery. That left Crowley and Aziraphale sharing the only other.

And wasn’t that a thing Crowley hadn’t anticipated facing. Until now all the plan consisted of was running away to covertly raise the antichrist in the hopes that the boy could learn to make his own decisions, to ultimately choose between good or evil, between saving or sacrificing the Earth. Crowley had been so focused on the child that he hadn’t even thought about what it would be like to actually enact the plan, actually build a secret life with Aziraphale to properly raise a human boy. He had to sit on the garden bench as those fantasies began to overtake him.

What would it be like to live with the angel, to exist in the same small space for what was going to be a little over a decade? They’d spent time together in close quarters before, often do so when Crowley spends an evening drinking or talking with Aziraphale at the bookshop, but that was all. They’d never been in each other’s space like they would be here, sharing a little house, a bedroom. What sort of place was this cottage going to be? Aziraphale and he had wildly different senses of style, not to mention lifestyles. Aziraphale was a lover of food and reading, Crowley preferred naps and television. Aziraphale liked pale hues and soft things, Crowley favored darker shades and sharp edges.

Would he see the things about Aziraphale he’d never had the chance to see before? What did the angel look like first thing in the morning, did he wiggle in excitement in the privacy of his own home? Thoughts of Aziraphale soon washed over everything else, overtaking Crowley’s concentration with the heartwarming reverie. Crowley had been harboring feelings for Aziraphale for years, millennia, and had tortured himself just as long with the foolish thoughts of maybe. Maybe he was glad to see him, maybe he enjoyed his company, maybe he saw him as a friend. Rarely was the latter true, at least if you asked the angel himself.

Too many factors kept Crowley from being able to outright confess his love for the angel, one of those being Aziraphale himself. He used the excuse that they were ‘hereditary enemies’, that an angel and a demon could never be more than that, but those were just words. Crowley knew Aziraphale didn’t really mean them. They were poorly painted protestations over ancient carvings that depicted the care and concern he truly felt. Time and time again the angel fretted over being seen with him, not because he was ashamed of the possibility but because he was scared that Hell would find out and destroy the demon. He’d refused for years to give Crowley even a cup of Holy Water, scared that he would use it to off himself with. Aziraphale had only conceded when he’d learned Crowley had intended on robbing a church to get what he wanted but even then the gift had come with a warning; 'don’t go unscrewing the cap’. It was an unspoken plea: _don’t open this, don’t use it, please._ Crowley savored those glimpses of Aziraphale’s compassion.

So Crowley confessed in little ways the angel never seemed to pick up on. A walk together in the park, lunch dates at all of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants, wine-drenched evenings where they bore their souls to each other. Little demonic miracles spent only to see that cherubic smile.

Crowley pushed himself up off the bench with a sigh and turned to enter the cottage, to get a better look inside and gauge what would need to be changed to suit their needs. Something stung sharply as he stepped closer to the door and he swore, took a step back and swore again. There was a horseshoe nailed over the doorway, a very old talisman for keeping the devil out. Annoyed, he snapped his fingers and the nails holding the thing up disappeared. It fell to the porch with a loud **thunk**. Crowley quickly kicked the thing into a bush.

The inside of the cottage was a mixture of old-world and an attempt at modernization. The kitchen looked like it had been renovated sometime during the 1980s while the den sported a massive, natural stone fireplace. There was some furniture already in the house, most of it Crowley intended on getting rid of. He took a walk throughout, taking notes of things he wanted to change and what he knew Aziraphale would insist on keeping. The master bedroom wasn’t very large but it would suffice, there was room enough for a large bed, perhaps an armoire and a vanity. The second bedroom was only a little smaller than the other, but it had its own little built-in closet. The bathroom was a complete wash, in Crowley’s opinion, the whole thing would need to be changed. He hated the dated white tile, the small tub, the toilet that looked like it may have been purchased when indoor plumbing had just come into fashion.

All in all, despite its faults, it was perfect. Crowley didn’t have to do much manipulation at all in order to secure the cottage. Paying for the thing was as easy as a snap, but a problem arose when he was required to sign for the deed. He couldn’t use his real name here, not if he wanted to truly keep this secret well hidden, but he couldn’t exactly use Aziraphale’s name, either. A Crowley or a Fell would be too much of a giveaway.

“All we need now is your signature, Mr….?” The notary inquired with a broad smile. Crowley frowned and gripped the pen a little tighter. His eyes darted about the woman’s office, looking for absolutely anything he could use as inspiration to fake a name on the spot. His eyes settled upon a basket of apples that sat on a wide windowsill.

“Eden,” He blurted out. “Anthony Eden.” He quickly scratched the name on the document. The notary looked over the paper and nodded.

“And, for census purposes, will you be living alone or…?” Her barely asked questions were starting to agitate Crowley.

“No, my husb–partner! Partner and I, and our son,” Crowley internally cringed at the words he spoke. “Just the three of us.” There was a glimmer of something in the woman’s eye but she merely nodded again, pressed a stamp onto the sheet and set it aside. Crowley muttered a half-spoken thanks and left.

“Call Aziraphale,” He spoke aloud as he started the Bentley and headed for the freeway. The phone rang a few times before the angel picked up.

“I do apologize but due to unforeseen circumstances, the bookstore is currently closed–” Aziraphale started. Crowley could hear a baby fussing over the line.

“Angel, it’s me,” He interrupted the spiel. “Look, do whatever you have to do, pack up whatever you own that you’re going to want nearby for the foreseeable future. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, lock up the shop.” Crowley hung up before Aziraphale could question or argue or even comment. He rolled over in his mind everything that he owned, that he kept in his flat, that he might want to keep close for the next decade. There wasn’t anything too integral, he thought, and it would be best he left everything the way it was if he were to make Hell continue to believe he was still there.

Crowley was laying an awful lot on the line and he knew it. His life, Aziraphale’s life, the very fate of the world hinged on getting this done right. He knew there was one shining light in the darkness, however, that the antichrist would have a self-defense magical field around him, for safety’s sake. Armaggedon couldn’t happen if something happened to the child, including being found by angels. Thankfully the defensive blessing also deterred demons. If either Heaven or Hell tried to find Aziraphale or Crowley they would at least be safe, even for a moment, while the son of Satan remained hidden. It was an awful lot to bank on and Crowley hoped his odds were good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small note for other American readers: This isn't particularly important but bed sizes are very different when comparing US vs UK sizing! A US Full is a UK Double while a US Queen is a UK King. Didn't know that until I had to figure out how big the bed should be.

Aziraphale was in love. Tadfield was a wonderfully picturesque little town full of tiny shops, a small library, two schools and a lovely little church, everything a growing child would need to have around in order to build a proper social identity with other humans. Jasmine Cottage hadn’t exactly been what he’d pictured Crowley picking out, it didn’t look at all like something the demon would ever choose for himself, but it was undoubtedly perfect for what they had in mind. He’d agreed with Crowley that the inside certainly needed some work, also noting disdain for the terrible bathroom and the need to update the kitchen. It was while he was standing in the master bedroom did it finally dawn on him that he would be staying in it with Crowley. Not just for a night or a week or a month, but for eleven _years_. He stubbornly tried not to listen when his heart murmured to him a subdued _‘or longer’._

Crowley had given him the freedom to make aesthetic choices, such as picking out furniture for the rooms or design ideas for the necessary miraculous renovations. Aziraphale greatly appreciated that and mulled over what he would like all the while keeping in mind the things Crowley would prefer. He’d considered requesting two small beds for their room, almost voiced the request, but stopped himself before he could open his mouth. Opportunity wasn’t merely knocking on his door, it was shouting at him through a megaphone _**'don’t be an idiot’.**_

“What do you think, dear, a king-sized bed? Or do you think a double would be big enough?” Aziraphale had turned to Crowley with innocent eyes. Crowley, cradling the baby in his arms, stopped stock still and stared at Aziraphale.

“Big enough for what?” He visibly tensed with the question.

“For us,” Aziraphale clarified and took a step closer to the demon. “For our bed. I think a double might be a bit too small for the both of us, don’t you?”

So many expressions flickered across Crowley’s face then, it was hard for Aziraphale to recognize them all. Shock, true enough, but something that may have been outrage? Disgust? Sadness was certainly there. Aziraphale suddenly greatly regretted the tease.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t really matter that much, hm?” The angel scoffed a nervous laugh and backed off. “I imagine you’ll be doing the sleeping for both of us, I’ll be up watching the little one.” Crowley continued to stare at Aziraphale as the angel moved past him, new emotions flashing through the yellow eyes. Behind the dark shades laid disappointment, longing and a little frustration.

Aziraphale risked a few miracles to materialize the various furnishings for the nursery. A crib, changing station with attached rubbish bin, a small bookcase and armchair. The closet built into the wall would serve well enough for storage, for diapers and clothes. He’d brought along a wide variety of books he felt might be entertaining for children, works by Perrault and Ballantyne, and placed them carefully on their shelves. Once the room was finished he stepped back to take a good look at his handiwork. Something still felt like it was missing and he frowned. It was then Crowley entered the nursery and carefully laid the baby in his crib. With a quick snap, a gently spinning black mobile hung with little gold stars popped into existence above the sleeping babe. Aziraphale looked at Crowley with surprise, his eyebrows lifted with an unspoken inquiry on his tongue.

“What? I’ve seen these things before,” The demon gestured flippantly with one hand. “Television, angel. Films. I do know _some_ things.” He huffed.

The next few hours saw Jasmine Cottage undergo a stunning transformation, at least from the inside. Aziraphale took to the kitchen, replacing tile and linoleum with wood and granite. Fixtures and fittings went from iron and steel to copper. He chose shades of cream and brown for the cabinets, floor and walls. As an afterthought, he miracled a tall wine cabinet to stand between the kitchen and den, and then a few bottles from his bookshop to fill it.

While he’d been busy with the front of the house, Crowley was taking care of the back. The bathroom had been completely overhauled; no more dull white ceramic, instead the floor and walls were covered in dark grey porcelain tile. The bathtub was exchanged for a garden tub, large enough for two. The toilet he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with. There would come a time when the kid would need one but they had a few years, at the least, before that became a problem. For now, he placed a mock toilet where one would normally sit, though of more modern design.

Both angel and demon met in the bedroom. They watched each other, both hesitant to move, to make a choice. This had been their point of unspoken contention. Should it be a room to share, for both of them to use, or should it be reserved for Crowley, the one of their two who took joy in sleeping? If it were to make the demon uncomfortable to share it, Aziraphale decided he would quite willingly surrender the space. Aziraphale finally stepped forward, a tap of his foot upon the floor spread a black stained hardwood over the old boards. Crowley quirked an eyebrow at the change.

“Bit dark for you,” He noted with a nod. Aziraphale shrugged but continued to move. He splayed his fingers over the bare walls, stripping the chintzy paper away to reveal a warm, dark gold paint. The one large window overlooking into the garden was transformed from its basic casement to a lattice. He looked over to Crowley expectantly, a wordless dare in his gaze.

Crowley didn’t like being challenged. He didn’t move as slowly as the angel, he snapped once and a tall Rococo style walnut wardrobe armoire blinked into existence against one wall. He flicked a glib snap to the other side of the room and brought forth a matching vanity table and stool of the same era and material.

“King, was it?” He asked with a tilt of his head. Aziraphale moved out of the way and watched the lavish bed appear in the center of the room.

It wasn’t really Crowley’s style, the angel thought, but it did look sinfully comfortable. A wide, walnut sleigh bed, piled with pillows and a thick, white duvet. While his eyes remained transfixed on the cozy sight, Crowley had snapped in two matching nightstands and lamps to flank it.

“Wardrobe should be big enough for all of your clothes, angel,” Crowley murmured, dragging Aziraphale’s attention away from the bed. Aziraphale blinked, surprised. Crowley had made his stance clear, the room was _theirs._

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. A sentiment of gratitude was on the tip of his tongue, nearly uttered, when he heard the sound of a baby crying. He startled and turned quickly out of the room, to the nursery, and gingerly plucked the child out of his crib. All the little thing needed was a few ounces of formula, a new nappy and a few bars of a lowly hummed lullaby and he was already drifting back off. As Aziraphale rocked the babe back to sleep, Crowley had finally followed and leaned up against the door frame.

“We need to talk,” The demon started, careful to keep his voice down. Aziraphale nodded absently and laid the boy back onto his tartan mattress. The two walked through the house and into the front den. Aziraphale had mostly left the room alone, he liked the large fireplace and the floors. The walls were now plastered with a patterned olive green paper, there was a deep, plush sofa against one wall and an armchair nearby it. An old fashioned radio and record player stood in one corner with a small box of various records at its base. There were two standing lamps which were giving off a pleasant, warm glow despite not being plugged into anything. Aziraphale had left the wall sat opposite the sofa open, for Crowley. He knew the demon enjoyed his television and would want one there. He hadn’t wanted to assume what sort he would prefer so he left it for Crowley to choose and fill the space.

Crowley flopped onto the couch and waited while Aziraphale sat himself on the armchair. Once seated, Crowley rearranged himself so he could look directly at Aziraphale as he lounged.

“We’re going to have to figure out how we’re doing this,” He said, brushing the hair that had fallen over his eyes out of his face. “I’ve got to keep doing my job, and you can’t suddenly close the bookshop just like that. Bound to be suspicious.”

Aziraphale had been thinking the same. He was sure he could easily get away with being at his shop less frequently, he’d notoriously kept bizarre hours as a means to deter customers, but Crowley was another matter. How often was he at work, the angel wondered. Was he always about town tempting the mortals, did he take days off? Both of them were capable of instantaneous teleportation, it was really just another miracle, but the sticking point was a human child would need constant care. One or the other would have to be present just about at all times.

“I don’t mind staying here, dear,” Aziraphale offered. “Why, you could even stop by the bookshop once in a while to see if there’s anything there that may need my attention. You could call me here, _we really should get a telephone_ , and I could pop right over to handle the issue then pop right back.” Crowley tilted his head as he considered the option. He turned his gaze upwards to stare at the ceiling, waited a beat then hummed a short note.

“What do you think of the name Eden?” He inquired in a strained tone. Aziraphale quirked a brow and heaved a giggle.

“I think it’s lovely? I am quite fond of it, I suppose, it _is_ where we–” He cut himself off there to clear his throat. “Why do you ask?” Crowley raised his head to look deep into Aziraphale’s questioning gaze.

“We’ve got to leave Crowley and Aziraphale in London. We’re in hiding here, angel, and we need different names,” He explained. He turned his face to look away again. “I chose Eden. Anthony Eden, when I signed the property papers.”

Something about that sent a warmness through Aziraphale, at the back of his neck and downwards. It was just a word, of course, but it was a powerful word. It was a place, it was a beginning, it was their beginning and Crowley had claimed it.

“I expect,” The demon continued. “You’ll be using the same? After all, we are two men raising a kid together. Only makes sense.” Aziraphale wished Crowley would look at him when he said things like that. He longed to glean the meaning of such words. They flirted on the edge of something deeper than their conspiratory arrangement but Crowley always managed to keep himself perfectly balanced between affirming a sincere friendship and hinting at something of a more romantic nature. It was maddening but perhaps that was just the way demons were, ever playing the devil’s advocate with their own feelings.

Sharing a last name meant something to humans, but it was again a double-edged sword. Would they share a surname as a way of touting them as romantically coupled? Married humans were known to do that, but there was another explanation. If Crowley would rather the people of Tadfield see he and Aziraphale as related in some fashion then Aziraphale would accept and support the choice. He would prefer for the former but he would respect the latter.

“Angel?” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale’s musings. Aziraphale shook his head.

“Of course, dear,” He muttered. “Whatever you think is best.” Crowley frowned and pushed himself up to sit properly. Now he was looking intently into Aziraphale’s eyes, striking the angel with a sense of uneasiness. The sudden impassioned glint shining through the dark glasses was a touch intimidating and Aziraphale squirmed under the oppressive stare.

“You need a first name,” Crowley went on. A shadow of something flickered through Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes, lending a ripple of something dark and inexplicable to their depths. A thought, old and long forgotten, slowly surfaced and bobbed in the angel’s consciousness. What had summoned it, he wasn’t sure, but now that it had arisen he couldn’t find a way to sink it back into ancient memory.

“Raphael,” The name passed unbidden through soft, parted lips. Aziraphale blinked, unsure of where that had come from. Crowley watched him for a quiet moment.

“Raphael Eden, then?” Crowley proposed. It didn’t sound so rough on Aziraphale’s ears. It sounded quite soft, actually, comforting. Like home. The angel smiled.

“Anthony and Raphael Eden.” Aziraphale replied. Oh, did he like that, he liked it very much. The combining of their names, the way they sounded together. He imagined what the words would look like together, written down on paper, real and visible and there. His fingers itched for a pen.

“Right,” Crowley murmured and moved up off the couch. He slipped his fingertips into the shallow pockets of his trousers and made to walk away. “I’ll get that squared away, we’re going to need some official forgeries if we’re going to stay. Identification, bank account, you know.”

For the second time that day the reality of what they were doing, what they were risking, fell on Aziraphale. They were doing this, they were living together in a cottage, raising a baby and doing their damndest to keep Heaven and Hell from spotting any of it. Crowley was the one planting the roots, setting their new identities and residence perhaps not in stone but in clay, impermanent at first but if they could keep the act going it had promise to calcify and become substantial. As he watched Crowley disappear, his work upon his mind, Aziraphale likewise stood with conviction. There was a book on child-rearing on the nursery shelves and he had all night to read it.


	4. Chapter 4

Tadfield sat upon a moral fulcrum, quite a fair number of its citizens welcoming while other more conservative, traditional folk turned dark looks on the Edens. Talk of two men moving into Jasmine Cottage with their infant son rose many an eyebrow. The old vicar himself, Mr. Pickersgill, exuded an air of patent indifference but followed both with judgemental glares any time one or both Eden man passed him by. A month of Sundays passed before he saw fit to ask when he would be seeing either man at church. 

"Ah," Aziraphale flashed the man a patient smile. "You see, we prefer to worship at home. We will certainly see to paying our tithe, Mr. Pickersgill, don't you worry about that." The answer seemed to suffice for the time being and Aziraphale oft left the man in a hurry.

It was another month before he had returned with fresh questions bearing the odorous stench of accusation beneath them. The elderly man had dropped by the cottage, to visit with Aziraphale while Crowley was out. They were sitting at tea when the topic was breached, taking Aziraphale completely off guard.

"So, is the boy baptized?" The reverend inquired with a nod to the child on Aziraphale's lap. The color drained from the angel's face and for a moment he had forgotten words entirely. 

"Yes, of course," He choked out around the lump in his throat. The lie felt heavy on Aziraphale's tongue with the weight of implication. Could the antichrist even be baptized? What would holy water do to the child? Aziraphale clutched him close in his arms, a fresh anxiety rising within him.

"Well, you won't mind if I have a copy of the baptismal certificate, would you? For the church records. All our citizens have them," The man replied, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale over the rim of his teacup. Aziraphale met the man's steadfast gaze, noting with curiosity some damning meaning within them. 

Another lie brewed in Aziraphale's imaginings, flirted upon his lips but remained unspoken at the sound of the front door opening. He tore his eyes from the reverend's scowl to watch Crowley saunter in. Mr. Pickersgill frowned upon seeing the demon, Crowley returned the look of displeasure. The holy man laid his teacup back onto its saucer and stood.

"I'll call again tomorrow, Mr. Eden," He inclined his head to Aziraphale. Aziraphale mirrored the departing gesture with a brilliant smile and watched him go. Once the human had gone, Aziraphale turned on Crowley with a look of panic.

"We forgot to acquire a few important documents, my dear," He gushed. "We need certificates, birth and baptismal, probably adoption. Oh, dear, do we need medical records from a pediatric physician?" Crowley pursed his lips.

In a way, the arrival of the vicar was perhaps a blessing in disguise as neither Aziraphale or Crowley had considered the rather important factor of naming the child. Anthony and Raphael Eden had plenty of finely forged legal documents supporting their identities but the boy had yet to be recorded in any meaningful fashion. The matter was more important than either consciously realized at the time for the naming of a thing often assisted in determining its fate. The boy needed a name, a strong name but a name that was neither good nor evil. After a moment or two, Aziraphale spoke.

"What do you think of Adam?" The angel suggested. Crowley wanted to laugh, Adam coming from Eden was a bit too on the nose, but stopped himself before uttering a tart retort. He moved closer to Aziraphale and looked down at the babe in his arms. He laid one hand gently on the boy's head and stroked his golden hair. 

"Adam Eden?" Crowley murmured. It felt appropriate, in a way. Adam, the first man, who had been given choice and forged the future for all mankind by his preference. This boy was to do the same someday. Crowley nodded. Aziraphale grinned brightly.

"Wonderful!" He replied and gently squeezed Adam. His smile near instantly evaporated, however, as he remembered the other issue. "Crowley? What exactly might happen if Adam were to come into contact with holy water?" Crowley blinked.

The boy was a demon, true, but he had been born from a mortal mother. The mortal half afforded him a number of luxuries, primarily the ability to blend in seamlessly with humans. Eventually, the demonic half would provide his ability to perform outstanding feats of a magical nature but he had years to go before that came into play. Unfortunately, the weaknesses either side contributed were as of yet unknown.

"Best not to test that," Crowley grimaced. With a snap, he summoned a small stuffed snake and held it out for Adam, who grabbed the toy and immediately began nibbling on its tail. 

Obtaining the necessary papers took no time at all and soon Adam Eden was a legally recognized citizen of the United Kingdom. The church in Tadfield now possessed falsified proof of the boy's proper induction into the faith and Mr. Pickersgill stopped harassing Aziraphale, at least for the time being. Just as soon, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves dealing with a rather active and unexpectedly fast growing boy. Both had assumed humans grew slowly, this proved not to be the case when Crowley learned that children figure out how to crawl quite quickly, by the mere age of five months, after setting Adam down on the floor of the nursery for a brief minute and losing him beneath the crib almost immediately. 

That wasn't to say caring for Adam was by any means a chore, Crowley enjoyed his time with the child. Humans this young were so responsive, they understood nothing but wanted to know everything. Adam had exhibited an explicit dislike for Crowley's sunglasses, often pulling them off the demon's face and smudging tiny fingerprints all over the lenses, so Crowley stopped wearing them when it was just the two of them around. It was unusual for innocent creatures to look into his eyes and not react in fear, perhaps Adam's inherent demonic blood made him immune to the effects of potent negative energy. Whatever the reason, Crowley cherished being able to hold the boy and not have him flinch and cry. 

Aziraphale enjoyed his time with Adam for his own reasons. The angel had read that it was vital for guardians to speak much and often with children, to encourage a growing mind and teach them proper language skills. At first, he simply read stories aloud for the child, and he did so relish in the chance to just sit and read, but then later delved into divulging his thoughts and feelings when it was the pair of them alone. They would hold one-sided conversations, Aziraphale confessing all sorts of things to the babe while the little one laid in his pram as they took walks around the neighbourhood. Once, while out on one of these walks, Aziraphale happened across a mother pushing a perambulator of her own. He'd smiled, waved, and the woman took that as an invitation to go over and introduce herself.

Dierdre Young had lived in Tadfield all her life and was so happy to have the opportunity to raise a child of her own in the small town she had always called home. Aziraphale came to understand that she had a son the same age as Adam, a little boy named Seth. The angel was elated to hear it; Adam would need other children his age to grow with and this one was just a short distance down the road. Dierdre invited Raphael and Adam over for tea on Sunday and he was happy to accept. 

Habit arose from practice and Aziraphale eased into the role of neighbourhood guardian angel, so to speak. Dierdre had gotten the word out about what sort of man Mr. Eden was and other women with children about Adam's age flocked to introduce themselves. Aziraphale was becoming well acquainted with the mothers of Tadfield, to Crowley's chagrin. The small group of women who would gather to meet with Aziraphale in the cottage garden initially annoyed the demon, especially after hearing Mrs. Wensleydale ask Aziraphale in hushed tones how in the world he fell in love with someone so unpleasant. Aziraphale had choked on his tea. 

Aziraphale had become someone to go to for advice, to go to when frustrations of the day began to boil and bubble over and there he'd be, in his soft knit jumper and little tartan bowtie, waiting to sit and talk and inspire a sense of peace that was so hard to find in this day and age. There were days when Crowley would stay and watch the angel go between entertaining Adam with stories made so much larger with grand gestures of his hands to ushering an exhausted young woman bearing a screaming toddler on her hip in for biscuits and guidance. Those instances always reminded Crowley why there were people who still had so much faith, who believed in things like angels. 

Sometimes Crowley would insist on taking care of Adam, to let Aziraphale have a chance to rest. The angel had scoffed at first but after six months of taking care of a baby, he had learned to be tired. The first few naps he managed to take were short, only a few hours, and served out on the sofa in the den. Crowley took to sitting in the darkened room with Adam cradled against his chest, Aziraphale curled up on the couch, to sing quiet lullabies, helping both boy and angel fall asleep. If Crowley cuddled the child close and placed delicate kisses upon his crown, none would be the wiser. If he got up before Aziraphale woke to bend down and brush a soft kiss against the angel's forehead, well, no one could prove that, either.


	5. Chapter 5

Much to Aziraphale's displeasure, a Christmas tree stood proudly outside in the snowy garden, lit up in a rainbow of fairy lights and glinting ornaments. He had still yet to forgive Crowley for the whole Christmas debacle. The angel recognized Crowley had initially meant well, and Aziraphale had thought it would be touching for mortals to have a day for honoring Jesus Christ, but the demon just couldn't let inspiration be inspiration alone and just _had_ to turn it into a temptation. What should have been a time to celebrate the life and sacrifice of a martyr became instead a catastrophic fiasco of fanatics arguing over a birthdate that was in truth miscalculated by months, all because one idiot back in the second century misunderstood the difference between celebrating the return of the sun versus the return of the _son_. The rampant commercialism that pandered to these zealots only muddied the matter further, tossing in the inclusion of a poorly documented Saint who was depicted more often now as a fat, elderly human fond of breaking and entering onto private property, as well as flying reindeer and articulate snowmen. 

Crowley, on the other hand, absolutely loved Christmas. It was a chaotic time full of greed and pride and the easily swayed; oh, it's the holidays, what would another so-and-so hurt? A glass of alcohol, a fatty dessert, just one more go at the shops for seasonal bargains to buy some expensive thing only sought after so it might instill envy in the neighbours. The demon also partook of a tiny modicum of glee watching Aziraphale begrudgingly read or watch holiday classics that the angel had to admit were poignant stories of devotion and always left him with a misty look in his eye.

Tadfield, being a small town with a little church and family heavy neighbourhoods, was all about Christmas. Scenes of the Nativity were everywhere, only matched in frequency by images of a red-robed Santa Claus bearing huge sacks of brightly wrapped gifts upon his back. Streetlights were wrapped in ribbons, storefronts frosted with fake snow so that messages of good cheer and pictures of snowflakes and stars could be etched in white upon the glass. Crowley had to near literally drag Aziraphale out to see the decorations, a thickly bundled Adam tucked neatly in his covered baby buggy pushed gently ahead of the couple through the gathering snow. 

"He needs to see these things, angel," Crowley had explained as they walked down Main Street, side by side. "He's got to have the full human experience, and that includes holidays." Aziraphale glared, and sighed, and complained about going out in the cold but eventually conceded. The promise of lunch at the corner cafe helped Crowley's case.

An untouched cup of coffee sat before Crowley at their booth while Aziraphale nibbled on a slice of apple pie. Music played in the background, traditional Christmas songs one would hear carolers sing on street corners. Despite himself Aziraphale began to hum along to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, eliciting a joyful little giggle from Adam. The angel giggled in turn and Crowley had to bite his tongue to deter him from voicing how adorable the two together were. 

They had agreed that if they were going to celebrate the holiday they would do it as properly as they understood. The tree, of course, was beautifully bedecked in bright, shining baubles but kept outside. Where trees belong, Aziraphale had said. He didn't agree with the concept of hacking down a fir only to keep the poor thing in a pot inside a house until it died of dehydration and, no longer necessary, tossed aside with the rubbish. Crowley accepted that; he claimed he wasn't interested in keeping the den clean of dried pine needles but in truth he didn't like the idea of bringing in a plant only for it to die a slow and undignified death. Plants, in his opinion, were meant to grow and flourish, perhaps with a healthy dose of tough love but to do so nonetheless. To watch a corpse slowly decay didn't appeal to either angel or demon.

To make up for the lack of an indoor tree, the rest of the cottage was decorated. Strings of unplugged lights hung from the ceiling, glittering like little stars when all the rooms were dark. There were garlands of holly and ivy and silver tinsel draped over windows and along the mantlepiece. To Crowley's appall and coyly denied amusement, Aziraphale had exchanged his usual pastel tartans for those in red or dark green or as a combination of the two. In turn, to Aziraphale's own dismay, Crowley had purchased the most ridiculous looking blond angel doll to sit upon the fireplace mantle. He argued as it couldn't very well sit on top of the tree, it had to go somewhere. Aziraphale very nearly told him it could go right into the bin.

Though Aziraphale didn't care much for the general materialistic aspect of Christmas, he absolutely wanted to include gifts as part of their celebration. Adam had every right to receive little tokens of love, just as any other child during the season, though Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure what would make a suitable present. Adam would outgrow any clothes within a month or so and small toys were given to the boy whenever Crowley found something he thought the child would enjoy. They could conjure anything they could ever need, price was no object. 

It was while he was reading to Adam from a collection of Christmas tales that he came upon the answer. Often, in the stories, the best presents were things made from the heart. With every wish for good fortune and happiness for the recipient woven into every stitch or painted across a humble canvas. After laying Adam in his crib for the evening, Aziraphale pulled out an old basket he had brought with him from his bookshop and settled in the nursery armchair. He adjusted the little pair of spectacles on his nose and pulled out a dense ball of thick, cream-colored yarn. It had been quite a number of years since he had last crocheted anything but he knew the pattern well. 

Aziraphale alternated between humming and singing carols as he worked, setting aside the project every so often to tend to Adam. Crowley had gone out for the evening, to check in with Hell, to see to the plants at his flat and probably to stir up a bit of trouble on his way back. By the time the sun was peeking out over the garden fence, to glimmer brilliant white sparkles through the frost touched window, Aziraphale had made enough progress to be content with putting it aside to continue working on later. He checked on Adam one last time, to make sure he was clean and fed and comfortable, then made his way into the master bedroom. In minutes he was out of his clothes, in a long cotton nightshirt and in bed. There Crowley would find him some hours later, still snuggled up under the snowy covers, looking for all the world like he was curled up under his own wings. 

With a thought, Crowley's own garb shifted from tight jeans and a black blouse to black satin pajamas as he moved to join Aziraphale on the bed. He folded his sunglasses and laid them on his nightstand before stretching out on the mattress, above the duvet. There were still questions, still doubts, about how close he could get to Aziraphale. Would this be too close for the angel? If he were to wake now, to look up into Crowley's soft, yellow eyes, would he balk? Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, tucked one arm beneath his head and cautiously reached out to lay his other between the two of them. A barrier, if necessary. 

Later Crowley would wake, tucked in under the blanket, the bed devoid of the angel. Disappointment, dull and throbbing in his temples, dragged a sigh from him. He shifted to sit up when he heard Aziraphale moving about in another room, speaking aloud to Adam. 

"--and that's why holly is so strongly associated with the winter season, now, mistletoe on the other hand--" Crowley heard the angel say. Curious, he slipped out of bed, raked his fingers through his messy locks and imagined himself in black leather trousers and a loose heather grey top before walking out into the den to see Aziraphale holding Adam in one arm while gesturing to the fireplace with the other. 

"Being greatly associated with fertility, a topic we will discuss when you are _much_ older, young man, mistletoe has been utilized for millennia," Aziraphale continued, summoning a small sprig of the plant in his free hand. "It's traditional for two people to kiss under this little herb." He emphasized the lesson with a kiss to Adam's cheek. 

Crowley mentally warred with himself over joining the pair as he stood and watched the angel explain the significance of the tradition to the child. How enemies would embrace beneath the plant, how it used to be used in marriage ceremonies, how it was initially introduced for its medicinal uses by Pliny the Elder in ancient Rome and, oh, dear boy, what a _bore_ that man had been. Crowley hadn't realized his traitorous feet had been carrying him closer until Aziraphale turned to him with a surprised look. 

"Oh! Good afternoon, my dear, I thought you were still abed," Aziraphale smiled softly. Crowley mutely shook his head. His eyes trailed conspicuously down to the sprig of mistletoe in the angel's hand. Aziraphale lifted the twig with a chuckle and held it over Adam's head. Crowley bent and placed a kiss on the boy's forehead, prompting the baby to wiggle and giggle in Aziraphale's hold. To keep him from wriggling right out of Aziraphale's grasp, Crowley gingerly slipped his hands under Adam's arms and took him into his own embrace. Before Crowley could turn away, Aziraphale raised the sprig up over his own head and gave the demon an outwardly innocent yet thoroughly cheeky grin. 

Crowley froze and time stopped. Not literally, not in this case, but it felt like all things outside this singular moment simply didn't exist. The longer he stood there, unmoving, the more apparently did Aziraphale's eyes dull in distress. His hand was lowering, his smile faltering, and Crowley struck. As swift as a viper's lunge, Crowley had Aziraphale up against the mantle, Adam in one arm as the other pinned the angel with a fistful of pale blue jumper. Aziraphale's eyes were bright and wide and searching as the snake's yellow glare stared him down. 

Be it a sign of surrender or trust or what have you, Aziraphale closed his eyes. He did not squeeze them shut, there was no fear in the angelic countenance, rather an expression of peace. Perhaps acceptance? Crowley wasn't sure and he was afraid to ask. A breath passed between them, two, then Aziraphale once again opened his eyes. There was blue fire within them, a challenge, and yet he did not speak. 

_'Say something, anything,_ ' Crowley thought. _'Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you, but you need to **tell** me.'_

"I do believe it's time Adam had his lunch," Aziraphale finally whispered. Crowley loosed his grip on Aziraphale's sweatshirt and stepped aside, allowing the angel to pull the baby from his arms and walk off to the kitchen. He groaned inwardly, cursed himself and followed after the two.

If Aziraphale had any thoughts about the interaction, he hadn't voiced them and it didn't appear he would. Crowley wasn't particularly interested in breaching the subject and so it went, unremarkable and quickly forgotten, or so each thought. Crowley had left later that evening to see to his garden and the poor vegetation received the lecture of a lifetime about not doing anything stupid, or so help him, Crowley would see to it they regretted it as much as he did. Aziraphale poured his heart out to Adam as he sat in the nursery and crocheted, confessing to the child how he felt so lost in respect to the demon. He cared so much for him, too much, and didn't he understand? Couldn't Crowley comprehend what Heaven or Hell would do if they were found out? No matter how deeply he loved him, it wouldn't be worth Crowley's complete eradication. 

The gifts Aziraphale had been working on were finished just days before Christmas. For Adam, a baby blanket edged in lacy scallop, for Crowley, a thick, black cardigan. The angel was quite pleased with the end results and took care to wrap both of them and hide them away. Unknown to him, Crowley had gifts for him and Adam, as well, hidden at his flat. Locked safely away, he had in his possession a hand-written first draft of an unpublished play penned by William Shakespeare hundreds of years ago. He'd picked it up off the scribe's desk on a whim and had kept it, imagining one day that he'd gift it to Aziraphale, in the hopes of getting the angel to look at him again the way he had when he'd promised to help Hamlet become a success. 

The other gift Crowley had stowed away was for both Adam and Aziraphale. Some time ago, during one of Aziraphale's naps, Crowley had posed the angel with Adam on the couch and snapped a photo of the pair of them sleeping. He'd commissioned an artist to paint the photo onto a larger canvas, with some alterations. The artist found it surprisingly easy to modify the clothes both subjects wore, into tunics thousands of years old in design, and add a white wing covering one of Aziraphale's shoulders. Crowley hadn't requested the soft glow the artist added to the edges of Aziraphale, the white light shining from behind him to cast Adam in half shadow, half light. The painter said she'd been struck with inspiration upon seeing the photo and made the adjustments herself. Crowley added a significant tip to her commission fee.

As Adam was only a year old and would most likely not remember this first Christmas, Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed not to involve Santa Claus in their recognition of this year's holiday. Neither relished the concept of lying to the boy about the existence of some magical fairy man who rewarded good little children with bribes in order to assure appropriate behaviour. The topic of what they would and would not raise Adam to believe in was spoken of every so often. Aziraphale was outright against acknowledging the Easter bunny. Crowley intended on tempting the angel to reconsider when the time came with the promise of chocolates. 

Christmas Eve was spent together, the three of them, in the den. All the lights in the house were out, except for the glittering twinkles dangling from the ceiling, to which Adam kept pointing up at as he cooed and giggled, gesturing with tiny hands to the artificial constellations only the eyes of children can make out. The record player in the corner spun instrumental melodies; it was playing Greensleeves at the moment, though the record label claimed the song was What Child is This. On a short coffee table sat a plated, sliced fruit cake, a few pieces already gone, and two cups of cooling hot cocoa. A small bowl of gingerbread teething biscuits laid nearby, one of which held tight in Adam's little grip. 

Perhaps it was the cocoa or how dark and warm the room was but soon Aziraphale began to nod off. Adam had fallen asleep hours ago and was snuggled soundly on the angel's lap. Crowley considered leaving the pair to sleep on the sofa but as he moved up onto his feet he realized that wasn't what _he_ wanted. With a snap, the couch shifted and transformed into a sleeper sofa beneath them. He climbed onto the extended mattress, laid out flat on his back and pulled Aziraphale and Adam to cuddle close to his side. As they lay in the shadowed den, Crowley quietly began to hum along to the music floating through the air. He met the morning with the lyrics stuck to his tongue, an age-old song that should have put a shudder into the hearts of demons. Crowley hummed and turned his eyes to the antichrist and did feel a shudder, or perhaps it was a flutter, in his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Adam was beginning to speak. At just a little over twenty-six months he was forming sentences, short but intelligible. Aziraphale saw to it that the child not only spoke clearly but also kept to his manners, maintaining the necessity of saying 'please' and 'thank you' when talking to others. This was perhaps a thin blessing overtop a thicker curse as Crowley found himself incapable of refusing Adam anything when he said 'please'. Those big, blue eyes and that high, little voice asking so nicely more often than not won the child an extra biscuit or two after dinner. It was hard being a demon in the Eden household.

The discussion over what Adam would call Aziraphale and Crowley now that he could call them anything had been short but important. Neither wanted the boy to refer to either of them as Father, the clergical connotation made it a bit too uncomfortable for both. Whatever they wanted really didn't matter in the end as Adam chose his names for the pair and firmly stuck to them. Aziraphale was Daddy, sometimes 'Da' if the boy's mouth was full or he was drooping into sleep, while Crowley was Papa, or 'Appa', for much the same reasons. 

About halfway through Adam's second year Aziraphale and Crowley came to recognize and appreciate the stark differences between babies and toddlers. Adam was no longer a small bundle of human with no discernible features other than _little_ and _helpless_ , now he was a person, still small but a definitive individual. He had preferences of his own, opinions and ideas and no apprehension whatsoever in sharing all of them. Green food was yucky, rice felt bad in his mouth, baths were a thing of nightmares and he couldn't sleep without at least two of Daddy's homemade blankets. 

As the boy grew so did an uneasiness that occupied the turbulent thoughts of angel and demon alike. The threat of Heaven or Hell detecting them was a constant terror to both. Crowley assured Aziraphale that Adam would be relatively safe from any sort of angelic or demonic method of sussing him out but they themselves were a different matter. Angels could find angels, demons could find demons. Heaven could find Aziraphale, Hell could find Crowley, and both had, to their shared discomfort, but only for mundane routine assessments. There was always that fear of next time, though, next time they might figure them out.

Throughout the past year, Aziraphale received a number of demerits from Michael detailing the numerous trivial miracles he'd spent in a relatively short period of time. He scrambled to make his excuses, eventually settling on the lie that he had taken an interest in a struggling orphanage to which he had thus dedicated himself to. The angel received a shallow commendation for the act of charity, soured with an added reminder that the Earth was running out of time and focusing on magnanimous feats was invariably a waste. Crowley witnessed a small, near imperceptible crack appear in Aziraphale's demeanor at the note, though the angel would argue it was nothing more than a momentary lapse in decorum. 

Crowley, for his part, had been tasked by Hell with locating and overseeing the raising of the antichrist, an awkward command given the circumstances. Hell still did not know that Warlock Dowling was a changeling child and that the true son of Satan was being reared with the help of an angel in Tadfield. Crowley supplied the occasional fictitious report noting progress the antichrist was making, innocuous dispatches about the usual things all children went through, though he did temper his news with minute demonic details such as instilling in the boy an insubordinate attitude towards his elders. These updates appeared to suffice as Hell hardly pushed for anything beyond these basic statements. They obviously weren't checking his work, but then they never did.

Now, more than ever, Aziraphale appreciated having friends with children Adam's age so close by when Adam began to outgrow all of the babyhood staples. Mrs. Young proved an invaluable asset when it came to tutoring the young human on how to take care of basic human needs that were considered unnecessary or inconvenient for ethereal and occult beings. She asked no questions when Adam's fathers struggled with potty training the boy and teaching him how to brush his teeth, it was certainly odd to her but perhaps these two men simply didn't possess the maternal instincts needed to teach some things properly. She offered her help with those mundane tasks while Aziraphale repaid the kind deeds by hosting lunches or playdates for the neighborhood children. Jasmine Cottage received another few small updates during this time; the bathroom now had a fully functional toilet for Adam and guests and Adam's crib was turned into a toddler's bed. The changing table disappeared entirely to be replaced with a small desk and chair as Aziraphale was beginning to teach the boy his letters and numbers, as well as an easel and fingerpaints for when Crowley set to inspire a sense of reckless imagination in the child. 

While Aziraphale continued to impart traditional knowledge unto Adam, Crowley introduced the boy to more abstract principles, particularly through music and film. Crowley's love for music matched Aziraphale's fondness for books and he shared it all with Adam. Aziraphale approved of the classics, of course, but Crowley did not limit Adam's exposure to melodies centuries years old. Adam heard it all, from rock to rap and all sorts of subgenres in between. Almost every night Appa Crowley would sit and sing to Adam as he tried to get the boy to sleep, Adam's favorite bedtime tune being Lennon's Beautiful Boy. 

It was the introduction to films and television that Crowley soon began to regret. Adam was insistent on watching depictions of his favorite fairy tales and while most of them were exciting, full of action and adventure, they also consistently contained threads of a romantic subplot. The prince fought the dragon then lived happily ever after with his princess, the peasant boy gets a magical genie to grant any wish he desires then lives happily ever after with his princess, a tiny wingless fairy girl explores the massive world around her then lives happily ever after with her prince. Crowley worried exposing the child to all of these happily ever afters might skew his worldview, it was an unpleasant reality but not everyone got their happy ending.

"Did you, Appa?" Adam asked in his little voice, his tiny fingers grasped around Crowley's thumb. It was late, later than Adam was normally permitted to be up past bedtime but the child asked so nicely to see the ending of Sleeping Beauty. He'd seen it dozens of times now, he knew the story well enough to recite it back to his fathers but he argued that he wouldn't be able to sleep if he couldn't see it play out in its entirety. Crowley looked down at the boy on his lap with a neutral expression he had to fight to keep in the face of such an innocent question. 

Crowley desperately wanted to say yes, that he had found his happy ending, but not only was that a lie, it was a lie that still had seven years left to play out. Crowley wanted more than anything to really have what he had but it was all for show, he knew that. He wasn't married to Aziraphale, Adam wasn't his son, and if this all did work out in the end and the Apocalypse was averted in less than a decade he and the angel would have to part ways again and try to forget all the little things they'd grown to know by heart about each other. Aziraphale didn't love him, of course he didn't, the very idea was heartbreakingly preposterous. Hereditary enemies, an angel and a demon, it would never work. It was all pretend, like a Shakespearean tragedy acted out under the pretense of a romantic comedy. Crowley had always hated Shakespearean tragedies.

"Mm," Crowley swallowed the noncommital noise and gave Adam a gentle squeeze before lifting the boy up to carry him off to bed. The demon couldn't bear the look Adam had trained on him as he tucked the child up under his two blankets. Those soft, blue eyes followed his every move, silently demanding an actual answer to his inquiry. Crowley sighed, he had to get better at refusing the boy. It was getting to be about as bad as it was with Aziraphale.

"No," Crowley replied as he sat on the edge of the low bed. "Haven't got my happy ending but they're not for everyone." Adam frowned and Crowley leaned over to kiss the little crease of a scowl between the boy's eyebrows away. 

"I'mma give you your happy ending, Appa," Adam managed to get out through a mighty yawn. Crowley nodded lightly and began to hum Adam's lullaby. The child was asleep before he finished the first chorus.


End file.
